


You Are Here

by idmakeitbehave



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, First Meetings, Gen, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Recovery, You ever just feel dramatic?, post-Revelations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:47:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25831549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idmakeitbehave/pseuds/idmakeitbehave
Summary: Spencer Reid doesn't believe in signs, but that doesn't stop him from looking.(Alternatively: post-Revelations angst because the writers decided to ignore literally everything)
Relationships: Spencer Reid/Reader
Comments: 5
Kudos: 111





	You Are Here

Spencer feels sick.

Both physically and mentally. He feels like he’s either going to be violently ill or collapse into a puddle of used-to-be human. Maybe both. Why not?

The withdrawal is almost over. He knows that. He knows the symptoms, knows the statistics, knows the timeline. Another day or two and he’ll be as good as new. He snorts at the thought. Good as new. As if. He’ll never be good again.

The bitterness in his throat threatens to spill out onto the concrete if he stops to think too much. So, he doesn’t stop. He wanders, without aim or destination, through the streets. This has become the norm for him. He’s not quite sure what he’s looking for. A sign, perhaps.

Spencer doesn’t believe in signs. 

He knows statistically and logically that they don’t exist. Things either happen or they don’t. People either stay or they leave. You either die or you live long enough to fail again.

Failure. Defined as a lack of success. Also defined as the action or state of not functioning. Synonyms, depending on usage, include incompetent, loser, negligence, oversight, breakdown. 

He feels like all of these things. If he stops moving for too long, it feels like they will overtake him. He will no longer be human, a living breathing thing. He will simply be a breakdown. An oversight in the grand scheme of life. Maybe he already is.

He reminds himself that he is still alive. His heart is still pumping, his blood is still rushing through his veins. This should be a miracle, but it feels like a curse. It feels like maybe he never really left that cemetery after all. Part of him wishes he hadn’t.

Alone. That’s all he can really feel. He’s been alone for so long, he supposes that it really shouldn’t surprise him anymore. Why should things be any different? He had been fooling himself, assuming that anyone would notice. That anyone would care. Wishful thinking.

The streets are cold and empty tonight. The brisk air wraps around his shoulders, causing him to fold more into himself than he already has. He doesn’t know how long he’s been walking, and this not knowing is refreshing. It’s freeing. He’s spent his whole life knowing, remembering every little detail. When he closes his eyes, it’s like reliving the worst moments of his life in a never-ending loop.

The drugs had helped, for a while. Until they didn’t. The loop had stopped, although not completely. It was more like a record scratch, a skipping through time. Then, just as soon as it had stopped, it started again.

He’s almost glad that they had stopped helping. If they hadn’t, he’s not sure he would have ever gotten clean. The allure would be too much, too hard to turn away from. The deadening of memory, the numbing of feeling.

He thinks of that Ray Bradbury quote- How do you get so empty? Who takes it out of you?

The list is long, almost immeasurable, but he’s certain of the first person on it. There’s only so much blame one can place on everyone around them. When you’re always getting hurt, always getting left, it’s easier to figure out the common denominator. Him.

The shame weighs him down, filling his limbs with guilt, his heart with loathing. When did he become like this? He supposes it’s always been this way, one way or another. There’s no one moment he can pinpoint, one single event that has led him here.

No matter how hard he tries to keep his mind blank, the thoughts still tug at him. He’s been walking for so long now that he doesn’t recognize where he is. It’s so dark and vacant that it could be any time, any place. He’s grateful for his ignorance. There’s peace to be found in oblivion.

He’s startled from the emptiness when his foot connects with something in his path, sending it flying. He looks down at the offending object- an empty aerosol can. With this sudden consciousness, he places the distinct smell of paint. He blinks in the dark, eyes slowly adjusting.

The brick wall to the right of him gradually comes into focus and he peers up at it. Flowers cover the wall in every type and color imaginable, the paint still wet. It’s exquisite. He notices lettering and steps back to see the words written.

_You are here and you are alive. I am so glad._

The words knock the wind out of him. He’s not quite sure why, but he stares up at them, eyes wide. There’s something wet on his cheeks and he reaches his hand up to wipe it away. Tears. He’s not even sure when he had started crying.

He sinks down to the cold ground, pulling his legs to his chest and wrapping his arms around them. His chin rests on his knees as he gazes up at the wall. His breath catches in his throat, the tears blurring his vision.

_You are here and you are alive. I am so glad._

He reads the words again and again, like a mantra. Like if he says them enough times they will become true. 

Spencer doesn’t believe in signs, but if he did, this would be it. 

He’s here and he’s alive. For so long it’s felt like a curse, like an unlucky turn of events. He’s forgotten what it’s like to be grateful for this life. To breathe it in, to remind himself that there is more to come. More than the losses and the misfortune. More than the suffering. 

He’s shaken from his hazy revelation by an abrupt noise, a rustling. 

“I am.”

The voice comes from behind him, and he snaps to attention and turns, though he remains planted on the ground. He wipes the tears from his face, trying to slow his breathing. He’s suddenly acutely aware of how absurd he must look to this stranger, sitting in the middle of the street in the middle of the night, crying over graffiti. But, he realizes with startling clarity, he doesn’t care.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” you say, jutting him back out of his reverie. 

“You didn’t.” It’s a bald-faced lie and you both know it.

You shuffle your feet for a moment, the plastic bag hanging in your hand. “I ran out of paint. I had to run home and get more so I could finish.”

He blinks at you, coming to the slow realization that you are the one responsible for this creation. The one that brought him to his knees in the middle of the night on a random Quantico street. “You made this?”

“Yup.” You drop down to the ground beside him, both of you looking up at the wall. “I’m Y/N,” you offer.

“Spencer.” He turns his attention away from the graffiti to look at you. Your hair is pulled back into a messy bun, your coveralls stained with paint. He almost wants to laugh at how absurdly in character you look. Just like he would imagine an overnight graffiti artist, if he had ever had the need to imagine one before.

You turn towards him, studying his face. He’s unnerved by your gaze, though it’s somehow deeply intimate, familiar almost. You reach up, wiping the lone tear that lingers on his cheek and he inhales sharply at your touch.

“What did you mean by ‘I am’?” His words are soft, the still night casting a shadow over them. Your hand finds its way to his, and he responds easily by interlacing his fingers with yours, surprised by his own actions.

“I’m glad you’re here.”

Spencer doesn’t believe in signs, but if he did, this would be it.


End file.
